


The Bakerstreet Boys

by Emilybells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Laser Tag, Singing, boy band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilybells/pseuds/Emilybells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, and Lestrade team up to solve a case in what is perhaps one of their most unusual tactics to date: starting a fake boy band with which to enter London’s annual pop music competition. (Pre-season 3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock has gotten lost from his group. Well, allow me to rephrase: he’d gotten separated from John. The rest of them he’d fully intended to ditch from the very beginning. But it was John he wanted to keep an eye on. Just before stepping inside they’d promised to watch one another’s back, and Sherlock fully intended to keep that promise, but now John was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn, or ran into trouble, or…

The detective shook his head. He couldn’t worry about that now. John would be alright on his own, he knew that.

Keeping both hands grasped firmly around his gun, Sherlock pressed close to the wall as he crept forward, his shoulder brushing against it slightly. The tunnel ahead of him was dark - almost pitch black, with the only light guiding him being a faint blue glow. Sherlock could hear voices around him, some closer than others, giggling mixed with screams, but he tried his hardest to block them out.

He had to remember what he’d come for.

Finally Sherlock reached the end of the tunnel. Eyes shifting over, he spotted the reflection of something neon red against the other end of the tunnel. This had to be it. Sherlock took a deep breath and hesitated for all of a second before jumping out from around the corner. Weapon raised, he began firing as many shots as he could get in, but it didn’t make a difference.

Without warning there was an exaggerated sound like the power shutting off and the blue lights on his vest went dark. A child whose head couldn’t have gone much past Sherlock’s thigh pushed past the older man, laughing maniacally and waving his gun about in the air.

Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder. Sherlock glanced over to see John back at his side, half-smiling. “Aw, don’t worry about that one. He’s a pro - got me four times back there.”

"I was doing so good," Sherlock said, a distressed look in his eyes.

John snorted. “You need to stop taking this game so seriously, mate. It’s just laser tag.” He paused and watched as Sherlock’s glowing vest came back to life with a loud hum. “See? Good as new. Say, why don’t you finish taking out this base. I already got the points here so I’ll meet up with you again at the yellow base. And if I see that jerk in the yellow on my way over I’ll shoot him for you!”

Without waiting for Sherlock to answer John darted out of the red base. The detective made a face and lifted his weapon towards the ceiling again. And then the power-shutting-down noise returned.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!"

-x-

John hung up his vest with a smug look. “Think you did that good?” Sherlock asked, starting to unbuckle his own.

"I know I did. Don’t forget to check your player name."

Sherlock pushed a button and looked down at the tiny screen: Spazz. Without saying anything he removed the vest and followed John out.

Back in the lobby the men joined the rest of the two birthday parties that had participated: Mike’s and some 10-year-old kid’s. A hush washed over the group of people as they watched the loading bar with anticipation. Once it had reached the end of the screen the game’s stats appeared and those who had been on the blue team let out a series of ecstatic shrieks and clung to each other. Sherlock came close to covering his ears with John next to him and doing the like.

"How’d you do?" he asked, raising his voice over the shouts.

John pointed at the screen. “First on our team, fourth overall. I was Squirtle. See?” The doctor didn’t think to ask how Sherlock ranked, and he didn’t bother to tell him.

There was a buzzing from inside Sherlock’s pocket. He slipped out of the crowd as discretely as possible and went outside to answer his mobile, where he could escape the loud arcade noises in the background. Sherlock glanced down at the mobile before flipping it open. It was Lestrade. “Oh, thank god,” he exhaled. “Please tell me somebody’s just been brutally murdered.”

-x-

"Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like

On a-Jupiter and Mars”

As he sang, John finished rinsing the last of the shampoo out of his hair and reached for the half-empty bottle of conditioner.

"In other words, hold my hand

In other words, baby, kiss me”

After getting out of the shower, John quickly dried himself off with a towel, which he then tied around his waist. Still humming the rest of the song to himself, John opened the door to find himself standing face-to-face with Sherlock. He let out a high pitched yelp and slammed the door shut. John then took a deep breath, tightened the towel skirt, and swung it open again.

"Sherlock," he said with a hint of agitation in his voice. "Welcome back. I was wondering where you’d run off to, considering you disappeared halfway through Mike’s party."

"I have a favor to ask of you," his flatmate explained coolly.

"Oh, goody," John sighed, pushing past Sherlock and heading towards his own room to get dressed. Sherlock came close to following him in, but stopped just outside when John closed the door on him.

"Well, I figured you’d be onboard, so I went ahead and booked us the performance anyway," Sherlock went on, his voice raised so that John could still hear. "Lestrade thought I should double check with you anyway."

"What am I being forced into this time?" John’s muffled voice said from the other room.

Rather than giving his friend a straight answer, Sherlock instead chose to dance around the question. “You like music, don’t you, John? Of course you do. I heard you singing in the shower. And not a bad voice, too. Perhaps a little off pitch during the chorus, and I don’t advise you try harmonizing with yourself, but those are insignificant. Anyway, I uh… I was wondering if you wanted to start a band with me. Well, me and the Detective Inspector. Temporarily, of course. We wouldn’t have to be good so much as convincing. It’s a… rather long story.”

Beat.

"John? Should I interpret your silence as a sign of approval?"

After about a half-minute of silence the door creaked open just enough for John to squint at Sherlock through it. “Are you drunk?” he accused.

Sherlock blinked. “What? No. I haven’t been drinking. Why do you always ask me that?”

"I don’t know, why the bloody hell do you want to start a band? You can only play the violin, and I could probably figure out Chopsticks on piano, but that’s about the extent of it."

Pushing the door open further, Sherlock went ahead and invited himself inside. Thankfully John was already clothed by then. “Oh, John, stop being so traditional,” the man went on. “Don’t you know how all the music sounds these days? You don’t have to have any real talent in a boy band, just be able to sing in time and look good doing it. It’s a rather simple recipe. Although, if you feel it’s absolutely necessary, I’m sure I could put a little time into learning to work a drum set, and Lestrade claims that he isn’t half-bad on the guitar.”

"You still haven’t told me what all this is about," John pointed out as he took a seat at the foot of his bed.

"Oh, right, of course. The three of us have taken up a slot in an music talent show slash competition for up and coming artists and pop groups. They weren’t accepting any more singles by the time we signed up, so Lestrade put our little trio down under the title of The Bakerstreet Boys. He thinks he’s rather clever, you know."

John frowned. “Okay, yes, I’ve got the general idea, but WHAT IS THE UNDERLYING PURPOSE IN ALL THIS?”

"Well, isn’t it obvious?" Sherlock asked, whipping his head around. "The competition consists of a series of performances throughout the London area. At each one the groups are given a rating, and the best of each move on to the next stage."

"You could’ve just said ‘a tournament’," mumbled John.

"However someone, or perhaps a group of someones, has been hindering the competition. We’d be stepping in in order to pinpoint the cause of the disturbances from the inside."

John rubbed at his eyes. “And you’re putting us directly into the line of fire just to get a better angle on a case. Of course you are.”

Sherlock pursed his lips into a mischievous grin. “And Bingo was his name-O. So you’re on board, yes? Perfect! I’m headed out for a bit. Lestrade’s scheduled a band meeting in his garage at seven. I expect you to have a pitch for our hit new single by then. Good luck.” Giving a curt nod Sherlock bounced on out of John’s bedroom. John stood gaping after him for a moment or two.

"Now hold on," he let out, scurrying after the man. John stopped at the top of the stairs. "Sherlock, wait!" he called after the detective. "How the bloody hell do you expect me to write a good song in the next two and a half hours?"

At the foot of the stairs Sherlock stopped and looked up at John, blinking. “I’m confident that you’ll think of something,” the man said with a suggestive wink.

-x-

The entire situation proved to be much more stressful to John than he had originally anticipated. Why should he write the stupid song, anyway? Sherlock composes. He could at least come up with a melody they could work with, whereas John went through half a notebook scratching out ideas for titles and lyrics and ripping paper after page from it, which he would crumple up and throw towards a wastebasket at the opposite end of the room (although the vast majority of these had accumulated in various piles around the floor).

After what felt a lot longer than it probably was, John got fed up for the last time and chucked the entire spiral, instead pulling out his laptop in a retreat to Facebook and Tumblr. But when the man first started it up he noticed a familiar little icon sitting on the desktop: The Sims 3.

Sherlock had installed the computer game. Someone got it for him as a joke, probably Mrs. Hudson or Molly, but the detective then ended up putting a good amount of time into recreating 221B Baker Street and everyone he knew between cases. John stared at the icon for some time, his index finger rubbing back and forth across his lower lip for several moments before he finally clicked on the thing. Oh, what the heck, he thought to himself with a shrug.

John couldn’t be bothered to create a new family to play with, so instead he took a look at the version of himself Sherlock had made. The character didn’t really look like him, but he supposed it was as close as one could get using something like this. He hesitated before clicking to see what traits Sherlock had assigned to him: flirty, heavy sleeper, good, easily impressed, and brave. John let out a sigh of relief - it could’ve been a lot worse. He then spotted Sherlock’s sim starting to fix itself a meal and decided to check out that one’s traits: genius, brave, ambitious, loner, and childish. John made a ‘hm’ noise to himself.

The Sherlock sim finished eating, walked over to a radio stashed towards the corner of his own version of 221B and turned it on. The computer began blasting a song similar to the sort of things John would hear on the radio that was wildly popular with younger generations. Not his favorite genre, of course; but it was catchy, and the strange sim language singing along to it didn’t even bother him all that much.

After listening for several seconds John realized that he had been tapping his foot along the entire time. And then a strange idea occurred to him. He hummed along with the music as it looped twice and then muted the computer. John pulled out his mobile and, before he forgot how it went again, made a voice memo of himself humming the same tune. Once he had finished the man glanced at the time - 6:32. He shut the laptop, leaving it sitting out on the table, and started getting ready to head out.


	2. Chapter 2

John didn’t know what he was expecting, but this was certainly not it. The address Sherlock had texted him went to what he assumed was Lestrade’s place, and the door had been left unlocked. John stood in the doorway for a minute or two, calling out again and again, “Hello? Is anyone here? Sherlock? …Lestrade?”

Finally John was answered by the sound of Smoke On The Water blasting on a bass guitar with no accompaniment. He jumped a little at the sudden ambush of music and then resolved to let himself inside, considering no one could possibly hear him with that racket going on anyway.

The doctor made his way towards the source of the noise, which led him through a living room and down a short flight of stairs into a garage. Where a car would normally be parked there was instead a full drum set, a couple of insanely large speakers, a microphone, and a bunch of cords. John saw now that Lestrade had been the one playing the guitar. He was wearing a leather jacket that didn’t seem to fit him quite right and a pair of shades that weren’t entirely appropriate for an already poorly lit garage. Nearby he spotted Sherlock and Molly, who were obviously yelling to one another from just a foot or so away to be heard over Lestrade’s rocking out.

"UH, HI?" John called out as loudly as he could. It didn’t cut through Smoke On The Water in the least, however.

Sherlock suddenly noticed John’s hovering and tapped Molly’s shoulder so she could look up and see as well. The woman then scurried over to the other end of the garage and unplugged one of the amps, effectively cutting off Lestrade. The DI pulled off his sunglasses and threw his arms out to the side as if offended.

"What the bloody hell was that for?!" 

"Well for one," Molly started, "all you’ve done is repeat the same baseline for a couple straight minutes. Also John is here."

"Oh." Lestrade glanced up and gave John a little wave. "You’re late to the party."

"I… yeah. Are we seriously going through with this then?"

Sherlock blinked. “What, the band? Of course.”

"But we’re grown men. Isn’t starting a band in your parents’ basement for… y’know, teenagers?”

"It’s not my parents’ basement though," Lestrade pointed out. "It’s my garage attached to my house that I pay mortgage on because I'm an adult, thank you.”

"What’s Molly doing here?" asked John. "Is she joining us?"

"Stage manager," Molly answered.

"Groupie," Sherlock said at the same time. Molly gave him a look before going on. 

"I’m helping with the public appearance aspect of it. Producing merchandise, posters, CDs…" Molly explained proudly. "Also keeping track of performance scheduling and the like." 

John raised an eyebrow. “Posters… CDs… Is all that really necessary?”

"Well. If we want anyone to take us seriously. Sure."

"But we don’t want people to take us seriously! I thought the point of all this was to catch whoever’s sabotaging the tournament?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes. That is the goal. But it’s a different sort of crowd out there. Unless you’re ‘in,’ you can’t really ever get ‘in,’ and to get in we have to be convincing.”

"But… earlier you said we wouldn’t have to be any good," John said slowly.

"I still never said anything about us being good.”

"Go big or go home," grinned Lestrade. "Ought to at least try to give ‘em a run for their money."

Molly clapped her hands together, drawing in the boys’ attention. “Shall we get started?” she suggested. “The first tournament is in exactly a week, and we still need an original piece to perform. That’s it. Just one song. So, suggestions, anyone? Hm?” The woman lifted her chin and looked around at the other three faces expectantly. 

Lestrade cleared his throat before speaking up: “Uh, as I’m sure you’re all already aware, I used to play in a group at uni. We weren’t terrible. Broke up because… Anyway, it’s been quite some time since then, so think we could reuse one of the songs I wrote when—”

"I believe John was working on something the last time I saw him," Sherlock interrupted. He turned to John, who stared back at him blankly for a moment. 

"Well, go on then. Let’s hear it," pressed Molly.

"Oh. Um. Alright. Uh… one second, ah…" The man fumbled about in his trouser pocket for a moment and pulled out his mobile, which he then turned the volume up on and used to play the voice memo he’d recorded earlier that evening. There was a brief silence when the thing stopped playing. John swallowed. "So, um, yeah. That’s… that’s basically the chorus. We could add onto it of course, and - and it still needs lyrics, but uh… Yeah. So. There’s that. I guess."

Molly nodded thoughtfully. “I like it,” she finally concluded. “Catchy. Original.”

John tensed up at the word ‘original,’ but no one seemed to notice, and Sherlock didn’t question him.

"Mine are at least finished," Lestrade muttered under his breath.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the detective inspector. “Yes, Lestrade, but yours also have the potential of causing problems with the members of your old band over who owns their rights. Now, it’s a very small chance that they’d have any way of knowing, but I’d like the avoid the possibility altogether, wouldn’t you agree? Especially since you were the one booted out of the ensemble.” 

Lestrade’s face flushed and he opened his mouth to protest before shutting it again. Sherlock shot him a smug look. Stubbornly, Lestrade crossed his arms and looked away. “Fine. We’ll consider John’s song. But I still want to see the lyrics before we decide anything final.”

"And I can write a part for you," Sherlock offered. The detective went over to a shelf that lined one of the walls and picked up a half-pencil and pad of paper that had been left there. "John, would you mind…?"

"What? Oh, right! Yeah!" John started to take out his mobile again.

"Actually, it might be easier if you hummed it for me in person." 

John paused. “…oh. O-Okay.” The man thought for a moment, starting to tap the beat on the side of his leg. Once he felt confident enough John hummed the little tune for Sherlock, who quickly scribbled something down.

"Again."

John repeated the tune. He did this twice more before Sherlock was satisfied. “Alright, this should work,” Sherlock nodded, looking over what he’d written. He picked up his coat from where it had been hanging over one of the drums and pushed past John on his way out.

"Wh-Where are you going?" John asked. 

Sherlock looked surprised by his flatmate’s question. “Back to Baker Street. This is all we can get done today without the full song. That being said, I expect a finished lyric sheet first thing in the morning so that I can write Lestrade a part by this time tomorrow. We are still on for then, Lestrade? Molly?” The two of them nodded. Sherlock smiled. “Perfect. We’ll rehearse then.” The man turned up his jacket collar and disappeared inside of Lestrade’s living room. 

John started after him without a word but was quickly pulled back by Molly. “Not so fast,” the girl said. “I still need to get your measurements.”

"M-My measurements?"

"For your costume." 

"I’m sorry… My costume?”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Of course! You can’t get on stage wearing dad clothes.”

"Dad clothes?!" 

Lestrade snorted at this exchange. Without explaining any further, Molly pulled forth a tape measure from her jacket pocket and instructed John to stand straight with his legs slightly apart and arms out to his sides. As they did this, Lestrade put his sunglasses on and plugged his bass guitar back in so that he could continue with his trip down memory lane, this time playing what John recognized as Iron Maiden.

-x-

John Watson was able to come up with a final product of the lyrics by sunrise, but in order to do so sacrificed an entire night’s worth of sleep. For hours on end he had typed and retyped as many possible possible combinations of words as he could think up to go with the tune he’d taken credit for. Each time he became more and more paranoid that whatever he did decide on Sherlock would make fun of him for, but eventually the man stopped caring and just went with whatever he decided was the least embarrassing song premise he had.

This he had given the working title How The Fuck Did You Talk Me Into This Sherlock.

Upon finishing John immediately allowed himself to pass out. He then slept at his desk until nearly nine, when he was awakened by something crashing around downstairs. John rubbed a hand over his face with a yawn. Snatching up the paper he’d printed out, he got up and stumbled downstairs groggily.

John stopped before getting to 221B and leaned over the railing. He of course couldn’t see anything, but could now tell that the noises that had woken him up were coming from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Who the hell decides to move around furniture first thing in the morning? Mrs. Hudson, apparently.

The doctor then let himself into the living room. Sherlock was already up. He was sitting in his armchair with his violin propped up in his lap, occasionally plucking at its strings but mostly staring off into space. He looked up when John came into view around the corner.

“Oh! John!” Sherlock started, jumping up. “Do you have it?”

John handed Sherlock the paper with a grunt. Sherlock scanned his eyes through the thing with a satisfied not. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that title, but I can work with this. Are you going to work?”

“…it’s Sunday.”

“So it is.”

John stared back at Sherlock for a long time with a dazed and confused, glazed-over look. Finally he shook his head and turned around, fully intending to go back to bed for most of the day.

-x-

That evening Sherlock and John met with the others again in Lestrade’s garage. This time the garage door was left open in an attempt to let in more light and greatly reduce stuffiness. Sherlock wasted no time in beginning to distribute sheets of paper.

"Perfect," Lestrade purred, taking his new sheet music and setting it up in front of himself on a music stand. He immediately started getting a feel for the song’s chords, but this time left his bass unplugged.

"What’s this?" John asked as Sherlock handed him his own lyric sheet. It consisted of mostly what he recognized as rest measures and the words printed were primarily sounds (ooh, ahs and the like), plus a few random words picked out from what he’d come up with.

"Your part."

"It’s not what I wrote."

"No, it isn’t. I’ve written you a harmony."

John made a face and looked it over. He barely knew how to read the notes on the page. He also noted that Sherlock had put the song title down as Dream Team. 

"And you’ll be over here," Molly told him, gesturing towards the drum set. "On the drums."

John blinked. “Oh. Um. I don’t really know how to, uh…” He awkwardly shuffled into the seat between the instruments and looked at them nervously. “I - I don’t know how to play this,” the doctor finally admitted.

"Seriously?" Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow. "Literally all one does to produce noise from it is hit a wooden stick over the thing at a semi-consistent interval. I figured even you could master the mechanics of it all. Didn’t even bother writing you a part for it." 

"C’mon, give it a try," Molly urged. She handed John a set of drumsticks that had been left on the shelf lining the wall.

John took them slowly, hesitated, and then brought one of them down upon the drumset softly.

Sherlock winced. “Preferably with a… little more conviction than that.”

John tried again, louder now.

"Yes! Perfect!" Molly grinned, clapping for him enthusiastically.


	3. Chapter 3

And somehow it worked. Although the group was shaky at first, after meeting for a couple hours each night the following week the Bakerstreet Boys had themselves a product that was near presentable. In almost no time at all it was the morning before their first tournament. The Bakerstreet Boys met at Lestrade’s once more and waited patiently while Molly pulled up alongside the house in a large rental boxcar. The boys then helped her load the instruments, microphones, sound systems and cables into the back of it.

Before they could pile into the available seats Molly came out into the driveway again with a sizeable cardboard box and dumped it at the men’s feet.

"What’s this?" John asked absently.

"Your attire. Don’t you remember? Now, I’ve written initials on all the tags of items that fit specific people…"

“Aw, sweet!” chuckled Lestrade, crouching down next to the box and beginning to dig through it. “This is like a… terrible warlike flashback from uni and the eighties.”

“You can’t be serious…” John bent over to peer into the cardboard box.

“Oh! These are for you!” Lestrade pulled a pair of black jeans from the box and tossed them to John.

The doctor caught the trousers and held them out in front of himself, frowning. “They have holes in the knees.”

“It’s a style.”

“Well it’s not a very good one. And - and what are those? Leather bracelets?”

Once they’d picked apart everything Molly had put their names on, the boys each went to a separate secluded area to change into their costumes.

“They were difficult enough to get on, much less walk around in,” John whined unhappily as he rejoined the group. He now had on a T-shirt with the name of some other band he’d never heard of underneath a dark jeans jacket and a thick cord of a necklace hung around him with a wooden surfboard dangling from its end. John also was wearing a new pair of bright red Converse. “Oh, and come on - even yours doesn’t look as ridiculous!”

The man gestured to Sherlock’s attire, which was a large leather jacket, much lighter jeans that weren’t ripped at their knees, a plain white shirt and a dark blue tie that matched the color of his Vans. Standing beside him was Lestrade, whose leather jacket was now brown. The DI’s navy shirt seemed to be advertising some kind of skateboard shop, and his trousers were a shade of blue in between that of Sherlock’s and John’s and held up with a thick white belt. His shoes were a pair of large brown combat boots that the jeans tucked into.

“Oh, and one more thing!” Molly sang, bouncing up to John with something that looked like a little spiked black ball.

“Oh, no no no, what the fuck is that?” John whimpered, leaning away from her.

“Quit moving. It’s a clip-on.” Despite John’s protests, Molly stuck the fake earring onto just one of John’s ears before happily announcing that they were ready to hit the road.

-x-

Once at the competition site, the woman went to get them all checked in while the others held back in the building’s lobby, watching group after group of guys dressed as strangely as them and mostly in blacks going back and forth.

“Hey, I’m gonna go… see what’s taking so long,” Lestrade said after a while and left Sherlock and John.

The flatmates waited for a minute or so longer in an uncomfortable silence. They then overheard the conversation of a group nearby that seemed to be talking about the real reason they were there.

“But, dude, aren’t you at least a little worried that you might be next?” one of them with long, sandy hair was saying as he had his back to them.

Sherlock nudged John’s side with his elbow and got up, slowly approaching the group. John got the memo and followed him.

“Nah, I got no beef with anybody,” a second fellow disagreed.

“That’s not what I mean. Whoever’s behind those attacks was takin’ out competition. People who were up and comin’, bigger competition. That sort of deal.”

“He’s probably not worried ‘cause he knows ‘e doesn’t have a chance of winning!” another man laughed.

“I do too!”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sherlock began, pushing into their circle of boys only half their age, “but I couldn’t help but overhear you saying something about some, uh, attacks. You don’t mean on performers, do you?”

The sandy-haired man nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly what I mean! What, have you not heard?”

“I’m afraid not. This is our first time at one of these events.”

“Oh, well you’re in for a real treat then! I mean, not about the attacks, though. Those were a real shame, y’know. I knew a couple of the guys that got the short stick.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” John chimed in.

“Loss?” The man blinked in confusion. “Oh! Oh, no, well, they didn’t die. Don’t be ridiculous. If people were getting murdered, then we’d have a real problem on our hands. Police would get involved, they might even have to shut down the event… Real panic it would cause, you know. Not to mention mess up a lot of people’s schedules. Some of us have looked forward to this thing all year. Worked really hard for it, y’know?”

“I… I’m sorry,” stammered John. “So - so you mean, these attackers, they just… Nobody died, then?”

“Not a one. Probably came to a pretty close brush-up with it, a few of them did. But from what I’ve heard it’s mostly cracked ribs, bashed in faces… One fellow claims to even have been badly burned with something, but folks on the street are saying that one’s not true. Even so, it’s still a real shame for the seven of ‘em. All had so much promise for the competitions.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who avoided his eyes. “Oh. Well. That’s um… That’s too bad. That there’s been foul play.” And then, to Sherlock, he said in a whisper: “Can I, uh, can I talk to you for a minute?” John took his friend by his sleeve and pulled him further back.

“Whelp, good meeting you!” the man they’d been talking to called after them with a wave. “Stay safe! And good luck! But, like, not too much luck, because we still wanna win!”

“You too!” John called back. He then immediately whipped his head around at Sherlock, who gave him a guilty half-smile. “What the bloody hell is going on?!” John hissed. “You said we were here investigating a series of murders!”

“Well. It is possible that I may’ve exaggerated that… just a bit.”

“A bit? Seven men have been hospitalized, not killed!”

“Now don’t be sexist. Two of of them were female.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh. “Yes, okay - I realize no one has actually died yet, but it’s only a matter of time before this escalates and someone does. And until then police aren’t technically allowed to get involved. Isn’t enough to go on to warrant a search for the guilty party. Lestrade had tried to pull some strings, but they suspect it’s the usual degree of gang violence and refuse to step in. But you and I both know why they were all targeted.”

“You’re missing the point,” John said sourly.

“Whether it’s seven corpses or seven mangled but still breathing bodies, we’re still looking for a person who’s responsible for trying to sabotage the event. How is that not the point?”

“You lied to me! That’s… That’s your stupid point!”

Sherlock frowned. “It got you here, doing this. With me. Can’t that be the point?”

“Wh—no! No it can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because - because we’re getting sidetracked pretending to be in a band when we should be interviewing actual living victims about what they remember about their attacker!”

“Why beat around the bush?” pressed Sherlock. “We’ve been given an opportunity to go straight to the source, John. Catch the culprit or culprits if and when they strike again.”

“…you’re unbelievable. Absolutely insane.”

“Sherlock! There you are,” Molly breathed, scurrying up to the two of them with Lestrade not far behind. “So, I’ve got you all checked in. These here are your wristbands - one for each of you; show them to the security guard to get backstage.”

John took his paper wristband and gave it a disinterested look. “Some security they’ve got here.”

“Now, I’ve had a look at the lineup today and we’re scheduled to go on ninth. The first group performing their number is in a little more than an hour, so—”

“Well well, if it isn’t GL,” a deep voice bellowed, effectively cutting off Molly. The woman turned around to see a bulky dark-skinned man that towered over a full head above her.

Lestrade stiffened and turned around ever so slowly. “Lou!” he exclaimed weakly. “Steve, Melissa, and…”

“Mark,” the fourth person in the ensemble finished for him. Melissa popped her bubble gum rather loudly and have the DI a little wave hello.

“Don’t you remember?” asked the man Lestrade had called Steve. “Mark’s the bloke who replaced you on bass.”

Lestrade forced a tense smile. “Oh yes. I remember now.”

“Is that… Lestrade’s old band?” John asked softly. Sherlock nodded.

The first guy, Lou, grinned and punched Lestrade in the shoulder in what he seemed to feel was a friendly and playful gesture. Lestrade winced. “Man, it’s great to see ya, GL! It’s been ages. Good to know you haven’t stopped rocking just because you weren’t so good back then. Lissa talked a lot about you after you left, said we was being too hard on you, but I told her you’d find another group of guys at your level eventually, and lookie here! See, Meliss? I was right!”

“Ha, yeah. Yeah, I… I guess so.”

“So, no hard feelings, right? Say, you still working at that Asda? With as long as it’s been you’re probably a manager there, am I right?”

“Homicide detective, actually,” Lestrade informed him bitterly. “I was studying criminal law and had an internship at the station, if you’ll remember.”

Lou’s smile slowly faded. “Ah… that’s right. You was the one always going on about your fancy-shmancy junior badge, wasn’t you? It’s no wonder Melissa dumped your arse as soon as we got Mark. I wouldn’t have been able to stand your yammering for that long outside of rehearsals either.”

“Uh, Lou?” Steve interjected, tugging at the man’s sleeve. “We should probably get going. Jo from the Triple Threats invited us for drinks before the show, remember?”

“Oh? Alright, then. I look forward to creaming you tonight, GL.” With a nod of his head, the ensemble left the Bakerstreet Boys alone.

“Always a delight meeting old friends of yours,” Sherlock exhaled. “Sorry about Melissa.”

 

Lestrade took a deep breath and turned around with a look of renewed determination about him. “Alright change of plans: we forget everything we said earlier about this performance having to be ‘believable, but not necessarily good’. Our new goal is to beat those guys at whatever cost.”

-x-

Just as the event was starting and introductory announcements were being made, Sherlock, John, Molly and Lestrade positioned themselves near various emergency exits around and behind the stage area. It was from here that they were to keep an eye out for any suspicious behavior amongst the other band members up to ten minutes before their performance. For better or for worse nothing did come up, and the group got together again at the side entrance to the stage as the eight band in the lineup began performing their number. The band just before them finished and although they couldn’t see the audience from where they were standing, they heard them erupt into applause.

“Oh and remember that all the lighting and special effects are being improvised by the tournament’s crew, so whatever they decide to do with that, don’t be surprised by it,” Molly was whispering to them.

Whatever she started to say next was drowned out by the announcer’s enthusiastic voice over the loudspeakers: “And next up, give it up for Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and John Watson - or as we like to call them, the BAKERSTREET BOYS!”

The crowd didn’t really stop clapping since the previous group had finished, but they got louder again at this. “Alright, this is it,” Molly whispered, patting each of the boys good luck as they passed her on their way onstage, hearts pounding from nervousness they hadn’t experienced until just now. “Go get, ‘em, tigers!”


End file.
